Taking Time
by quotelation
Summary: A collection of bits and pieces related to Ziva's absence, from both her perspective and the perspective of the team back in DC. T/Z, with lots of DiNozzo/McGee friendship and exploration of team relationships in general.
1. Chapter 1

Abby is trying to talk to Tony.

Not just chatting. A Serious Talk About Life and Direction and Ziva.

McGee, who has just edged his way into the lab to find his coworkers leaning on the same side of Abby's counter, facing away from him, does not recommend this. He is a fan of acting as normal as possible and waiting for Tony to feel comfortable enough to drop a piece of information or a feeling in front of him, and then prying open that piece of information or feeling very, very carefully.

So far it hasn't been so effective. But then, it's a strategy that requires time, and it's only been a few weeks. He's pretty sure Tony's taken a trip or two to Gibbs's basement. He can wait his turn. In the meantime, he's trying to remember to be annoyed with Tony when the man does the things that used to drive him nuts. Tony would hate to be forgiven for all of his probing into McGee and Delilah's love life just because Tim pities him, after all.

It's also easier this way, because he's still a little hurt that Tony got to say goodbye, and Gibbs got a phone call, and he got nothing. He knows it's different.

Still stings.

"—limbo forever…she _broke your heart_, Tony."

McGee cringes, because Abby doesn't pull her punches.

Tony lifts and drops a shoulder. "I didn't exactly give her stipulations on what she could do with it when I gave it to her. It was hers to break."

This is new. Tony being honest and forthright about his feelings is new. Astonishingly enough, Tim finds he would rather be forced to dig those feelings out from beneath eighteen layers of bad jokes and Humphrey Bogart references. This serious thing—it's not normal. It makes him uncomfortable.

Abby's generous with her gesticulations today. "That's so unfair!"

Every bit of Tony's posture, and the bit McGee can see of his profile, suggests a sort of bone-weary incredulity. It's a weird combination.

"I don't see what's so unfair about it, Abs," he says. The straightforwardness is still creepy. "She's not the first woman to break my heart, but she did it—perfectly—" is Tim imagining the faint hitch in Tony's voice? "And I'm not the first guy to break hers, but…I think I did it with some style."

Abby looks briefly skyward. "But you didn't break her heart!"

Tony chuckles, but it has no humor in it. "You didn't see her face when I left."

"But it was her—"

"Her choice? Yeah." He flicks a test tube, and it clinks against the next tube in the wire rack. "Doesn't mean it wasn't killing her," he says, low.

Abby has been one of Tim's dearest friends for years, and he's loved her in many different capacities. But right now he wants to smack her, because she is _not getting it_.

Maybe it's because she doesn't work upstairs and outside with them all day, every day, but he still doesn't understand why she can't seem to grasp that Tony and Ziva's relationship isn't something that can be distilled into I-loved-her-and-she-broke-my-heart. They're a swirling vortex of wounds and bandages and passion and tenderness and scar tissue. He's never seen anything so complicated. And that's saying something, because he's hacked past CIA firewalls before.

"Are you…_blaming_ yourself?"

"No." Tony straightens up and takes a step away from the counter, and McGee knows that this awful conversation is over. "Not my fault. Not _her_ fault, either."

"Tony—"

"I think McGee has something to ask you; he's been standing behind us for ten minutes."

Damn. Maybe Ziva had rubbed off on Tony even more than Tim had thought.

"No, I just—" Tim starts, just as Abby thrusts an open hand against his chest to hold him back—_wait_—and grabs at Tony's elbow.

"Look, I don't—"

"Know anything about it?" Tony asks, and McGee is surprised to hear such aggressive words delivered so flatly. When Tony is angry, he's genuinely frightening. This is not an angry Tony. This is a Tony who is…well, he isn't sure. Depressed? Resigned?

Abby looks wounded. "I just meant…what…I mean, is that just _it_?"

Tony looks at her blankly.

"I think what Abby means is what are you going to do," McGee says quietly.

Tony turns his gaze on him for a long moment, as if pondering something, then finally gives McGee—not Abby, Tim notices—a very tiny smile. "Count to a million," he says.

And leaving that cryptic bit of information/feelings-dropping for McGee to unpack, he turns and walks away.

Not depressed or resigned, McGee thinks. Well, maybe a little of each. But what Tony really is—and what somehow seems most painful of all—is _hopeful_.

"I really messed that up," Abby groans.

"Yeah."

She regards him unhappily. "What do you want?"

"Just a progress check."

"Everything I have so far is in your inbox, McGee."

"Yeah, I know."

Her eyebrows draw together quizzically until he cocks his head at the door and she gets it. "Oh. Well, I hope you got more out of it than I did."

"I dunno." He hesitates. "He wants her back."

"We all want her back, but that doesn't mean we can forget everything that's happened!"

"Yeah, but he thinks….I think he thinks we might actually get her back. Eventually."

Abby glances at the picture of the team she recently framed near her monitor, and her voice cracks when she speaks. "Well, I'm glad he thinks that. 'Cause I'm not so sure."

A minute later when Tim exited the lab, he realizes that he mispoke. Tony doesn't think that we—_they_—might actually get her back. Tony thinks _he_ might get her back, eventually, and he is willing to wait for however long it takes.

But Ziva will not be returning to NCIS.

The thought punches him in the gut, and Tim, unprepared, reaches out and grips the handrail in the elevator.

This is not easy.

Not for any of them.


	2. Chapter 2

_I really cannot explain exactly what this is, because I'm not exactly sure. But it's not quite like the first chapter._

* * *

There are times when she hates her own name. Wants to change it. Wants it gone.

She thinks of all the reports she's written and documents she's filed since she was just a teenager—_Armed suspect did not respond to commands. He rushed us, lifting his weapon. I fired twice through his heart in self-defense. Signed Z. David…Special Agent Ziva David issued service weapon #284869…I, Ziva David, being of sound mind, hereby join the Kidon Unit, and will not divulge either by words or by signs any information revealed to me…Attempted bombing today near the West Bank. Officer Ziva David responded quickly to minimize casualties by shooting bombing suspect in the head after ascertaining lack of a dead man's switch—_and she can't stand that her name is signed on all of them.

It's so very difficult to restart your life as a new person while carrying around the knowledge that your name is plastered across many dozens of death certificates.

It also means people can find her. If she uses her name, she is trackable. She is known. She is _well_-known, and at one time she loved that, but now she hates that she's known as who she _was_. She craves burn phones and aliases and fresh, clean slates.

That craving is hard for her. Because some memories are dear to her, and her name is branded across so many of them. Her grandmother—_Zivaleh, come here_—her sister—_Smile, Zizi! Yiyeh B'seder!_—her father—_Oh, my Ziva_—Gibbs—_Hey, Ziver_. She remembers the way Tony used to stretch out the first half of her name and pop off the second half with relish, and she remembers loving it, and she hates that she can't just let it all _go _the way she let go of the badge and the home and the strength.

She wants to.

Relearning to love it takes time. But she knows that when her father gave her her name, along with his, he wasn't thinking of the killer or the soldier, but the radiant daughter, the future, the hope. It helps. And she's stubborn, so she digs her nails into the task and pushes past the hatred and the broken bits of herself and she activates a cell phone under her own name.

And that's a step.

From South America, she writes Abby a letter on a yellow sheet removed from a legal pad, and although she says nothing valuable—it's all surface, all hope-you're-doing-well, nothing to indicate when they might hear from her again, she signs her name firmly. Nothing implied. No "—Z." A firm, dark hand, reading, "Love, Ziva."

And that's a step, too.

Two steps is not very far, but it's in the right direction, and she celebrates each as much as she once celebrated winning awards for her excellent marksmanship.

Abby writes her back, and even though Ziva is not sure how exactly she got the correct address and sent the letter so quickly, and even though she is not sure it is a good idea to read something she is sure will be full of "WE MISS YOU, PLEASE COME HOME," she feels warmth bloom in her chest when she opens the envelope.

Abby wants to know if they can email.

Ziva is not ready for that. Yet.

But the following week, she sends a postcard to Dr. Donald Mallard. And she signs her name and tells him she misses him.

And it's one more tiny step.

* * *

_yiyeh b'seder = it'll be okay  
_


	3. Chapter 3

_Back to Tony's perspective for this chapter._

_Thank you for the reviews and follows! I hope to get back to you as soon as I can (I'm terrible about responding to reviews but trying to be better)._

* * *

Tony thinks, all things considering, that he's doing a pretty good job.

He's on time, he gets the work done, he teases and pokes as much as is expected of him and no more, he limits his alcohol intake, he rewatches the first two seasons of Magnum, he talks things over with Gibbs, he cooperates with their temp workers, and he smiles easily. He even practices the piano regularly. When Abby gets a letter in mid-October, he does not tear it out of her hands and squirrel it away to pore over at night. When Ducky comes up to the bullpen waving a postcard, he gives the ME a wide, honest grin. He doesn't try to contact her. She'll call when she's ready.

In fact, you know what, forget pretty good job. He thinks he should receive some sort of lifetime achievement award for the act of mental stability he's pulling right now.

So it's a little irritating that McGee keeps glancing over at him from the passenger seat like a worried mother with a feverish child.

The seventh or eighth time he catches McGee sneaking a glance over at him, he throws on his blinker and moves to the slow lane.

"Okay, out with it, McGee."

McGee clearly thinks about playing dumb. Tony flips the blinker again and begins to cross over the bold line at the edge of the road.

"Hey!"

"Talk or walk, McTightlips."

"I'm just worried about you!" McGee bursts out, and Tony swerves back into the lane. He's glad he didn't actually stop the car, because then he'd have to look his partner in the face and they'd both probably have emotions and he's been confining his emotions to Lifetime movies lately and doesn't really want to break that streak.

"What? Why?"

"Because ever since Israel, you're being all—adult!"

"I'm forty-four years old," Tony points out.

McGee rolls his eyes. "I know how old you are, Tony. I've worked with you for nine years. I've seen your medical records. _And _your birth certificate."

"So what's the problem?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony sees McGee battening down his hatches. "I've never seen you so serious for such a long time. It's freaking me out. And Abby! It's freaking her out, too. And probably Gibbs," he tacks on as an afterthought.

This is nonsense. He's been mindful of displaying jubilance and jocularity at all the right times. Why, just this morning he'd signed McGee up to receive email newsletters and advertisements from a dozen women's clothing companies.

Delilah is a well-dressed woman. Timmy might thank him one day.

"Hang on, are you actually trying to imply that _Gibbs_ would freak out over that? Because I think you've been spending too much time in autopsy breathing formaldehyde fumes—"

"I've given it time," McGee said. "I thought, well, it's only been a week. Well, it's only been a month. But I talked to Borin today, and she mentioned it too."

Working with Borin this week _had_ been difficult. In her direct, faintly Gibbsian way, she'd made it clear that she felt the team was down a man, regardless of how they framed Ziva's absence. She'd also started giving him deep, probing looks whenever he wasn't looking. He'd been waiting all week for her to say something.

He's not sure which reaction he wants to give McGee, so he simply grunts.

"But it's driving me crazy, Tony. I give you crap and then I spend all this time feeling bad about it because you don't dish it back!"

That does get his attention, and he grins.

"So? I did that to you all the time when you were just a wee young thing, too scared of breaking the rules to tattle on me."

McGee evidently does not appreciate Tony's nostalgic tone, because he gets grumpy. "And that's always been the difference between you and me."

It doesn't sting much, because he knows McGee doesn't mean it. Still, he doesn't think it really deserves an answer. He concentrates on merging into the exit lane instead.

McGee sighs. "This illustrates my point perfectly, you know."

Tony decides to be generous and sweep the whole thing under the rug. Without looking, he extends one arm and thumps McGee on the chest. Then he amps up the animation in his voice. "I don't know what you're talking about, Probie. I'm perfectly fine and functional. Emphasis on the _fun_." He smirks. "And also on the fine."

"Then why are we listening to the classic country station playing the most god-awful song I've ever heard?"

_ You don't have to call me darlin', darlin'_

_ You never even called me by my name_

Tony blinks at the radio. "Oh." He shrugs. "I dunno, I kinda like it."

McGee casts his eyes to the ceiling, and before he can say anything else annoying, Tony goes ahead and gives him permission to change the radio. It's just not worth the aggravation.

_ For you, for you_

_ Baby I'm not movin' on_

_ I'll love you long after you're gone—_

He takes it back. But McGee's hand actually beats his to the dial, spinning it to some sort of fruity flamenco music.

"Isn't this Ducky's station?"

"Yeah, I think so."

They are silent for a long moment, but eventually Tony sighs. McGee is trying to help. Tony's more than familiar with the feeling of watching somebody you care about hide their pain—boy, is he ever familiar with that—and he doesn't mean to inflict that kind of worry on his partner. He _is_ a little disappointed that his performance of everything being perfectly peachy is not quite as Oscar-worthy as he had thought, but he comforts himself with the thought that most actors don't see each other every day for a decade and learn each other's personalities so well they can't get away with faking a mood any longer.

"Tim, would it make you happy if I went out with you tonight?" He'd already been invited and had declined when Abby and Borin had both cited other plans, but what the hell. Why not.

"It would be a start."

"Okay then. Sounds like fun."

* * *

It turns out to be even less fun than he'd expected.

He'd known Delilah would be there and that Abby and Borin and the rest of the gang would not. Somehow that hadn't translated in his mind into "middle-aged man third-wheeling it big time."

He really likes Delilah. She's cute and smart and classy and she and McGee have a good chemistry going for them. She also doesn't seem to mind in the least that her boyfriend brought along his sad schmuck of a friend to a night that otherwise could've been quite cozy. He wants to tell McGee that he's a lucky man, but he also wants to tell Delilah that she's managed to snag one of the best guys on the planet (trust him, he's been around it a time or two) and not to dare mess with his heart, but he _also_ wants not to make a sentimental fool of himself, so ultimately he steers away from that line of conversation. He does try to be as vibrant and DiNozzolike as possible, though, for everyone's sake. By the time he orders a second drink, a few women have noticed him.

He notices them back, partly out of old habit and partly because noticing things is his job, and he flashes a flirtatious smile or two in the direction of a tall strawberry blonde with a pretty smile and pink fingernails.

She walks over after a while, and strikes up an easy conversation. He can feel McGee beside him, half wanting him to buy the woman a drink so that things will be like old times and half wanting him to say "no, sorry, didn't mean to lead you on" out of respect for Ziva.

McGee is so transparent sometimes.

He _does_ think about it as he chats with the woman about nothing in particular. He could take this further. He really could. He's heard nothing from _her_, nothing at all, and they have no official commitment, and he knows he could wrangle an invitation to go home with her, if he wanted.

He's good at this stuff.

He _could_.

He can't.

She's beautiful and seems witty and charming, but he doesn't want to run his hands through straight strawberry blonde hair. He doesn't want to wake up in the morning wracking his brain to remember her name.

He doesn't want to make love to anybody but the woman he's in love with.

"Sorry, but ah, would you look at the time?" he says interrupting her and abruptly breaking off their conversation. He's aware that McGee is sending him a look that's half disappointed and half relieved.

"You turn in this early?" she asks, a little confused. Still smiling.

"Well, law enforcement, you know…always on call. Gotta be prepared. Nice meeting you, though!"

He makes no effort to get her number, and she turns away, looking the slightest bit affronted.

"Gotta go, kids," he tells McGee and Delilah as he pays for his drinks. "Be good. Have fun." He points at Delilah as he backs away. "Call me if he starts playing that awful stuff he thinks is good bedroom music, and I'll have a talk with him."

"Okay," she laughs, "goodnight!"

"Tony, you sure you're—"

"Perfectly fine, Tim, right as rain. See you Monday!"

* * *

An hour later, sitting on the edge of his piano bench and looking pensively out at the streetlights, he realizes he should probably feel bad for rushing out on McGee and Delilah.

He can't quite manage it, though.

The whole business worries him. He's been thinking more about his career lately. Goals…I Wills…his bucket list. That's forward-thinking, and he's been proud of himself for facing the future seriously in a way he hasn't in the past several years. He's been careful lately to nurture his relationships with Gibbs and McGee and Abby and Jimmy and Ducky, because he loves them and doesn't think he can afford to ignore that. Maybe if he hadn't taken for granted—but no, there's no point torturing himself with that kind of thinking.

But this is the first time he's thought of the future in a more…physical way. He's only had sex once this year, and that makes this his driest spell since he was barely out of puberty. By all accounts, he should be champing at the bit to get laid, and it throws him off to realize that at the bar tonight, he had no desire to make that happen. Does this portend his lonely future? He's never before bothered to think that there could possibly be a time he'd not be interested in this sort of thing. Just a second, he worries that he's getting old and losing his virility, even though that's not how DiNozzos work (his father's defilement of his bed last year is proof of that), and even though he's still fairly young and healthy.

But no, it's not his body. It's in his head. Worse, it's in his heart.

He can't sleep with somebody else because he remembers her palms on his face, pulling him to her again, her mouth open against his. Because he remembers the thump of his shoes falling to the floor, remembers the splendid curve of her hip, remembers trying to taste every bit of her skin and looking up to see her lips parted in a gasp, eyes closed, face glowing. Remembers that hair—that dark, curly hair you could lose a hand in. Remembers brushing his lips along the dip in her hairline. Against the inside of her wrist. Remembers going slowly, making it last. Remembers her tears wetting his bare shoulder.

He can't fathom the idea of sleeping with someone else when he remembers the sweet, sweet sadness of it all, his desperation—and hers, too—to commit every second to memory.

His phone buzzes over on the coffee table, and he tears his eyes away from the window. It's McGee.

_You get home ok? PS Delilah LIKES my music._

He sends a cheery response and drops the phone on the couch, taking one last long look out the window before he closes the blinds.

Delilah and McGee are probably undressing, giggling, fooling around, a little tipsy. They're in for a sweet night—two lovely people—and although any other time he'd be annoyed, tonight he's a little bit touched that they checked in on him.

Yes, they're all cuddled up, whispering between kisses, and he's pulling on his sweatpants and falling into his cold twin-sized bed. And all he sees when he's lying there, lights out, are her eyes. Seeking his, holding his, pleading for him to forgive her for this, pleading for him to understand.

It's been over a month, and this is still all there is for him.

This is the one thing he cannot make future plans for.

He's not quite sure what to do.

* * *

_I'm sorry if this is sloppy, but I wanted to go ahead and post it because otherwise it'll be another week before I get the chance._

_We all know Tony listens to Sinatra, etc., but there's a time somewhere in season 1 or 2 when Tony's in a bad mood and won't let McGee turn the station away from country, and I thought it might be fun to have a little callback to that moment. _

_PS, if you've never heard "You Never Even Called Me by My Name" by David Allan Coe, it is my personal opinion that you are missing out. It's the perfect country-western song (literally), and the last verse is hilarious. _

_Oh, and the line "dark curly hair you could lose a hand in" is blatantly stolen from Junot Diaz's _This is How You Lose Her_. I'm sorry. I just had to. It's definitely not mine._


	4. Chapter 4

_This is short, and I know it's been quite a while. I have bits and pieces written, but not much time recently to put them together! But anyway, have a snip of Gibbs for Ziva's birthday._

* * *

It's hard for Gibbs to be around DiNozzo these days. The man clearly thinks he's fooling them all with his front of normalcy, but he positively stinks of loss. It's not rocket science, anyway. Ziva's gone; they're all sad.

Gibbs hasn't exactly _avoided _Tony in the past few months, but the shoulder he's provided has been a stony one. He feels a little guilty about that. Tony's a grown man, and he can figure this out on his own, but it's possible Tony needs him to be a little more of a parent and a little less of a boss right now.

But he's not Tony's parent.

He's not Tim's parent. He's not Abby's parent, and he's sure as hell not Ziva's parent.

But he'll be damned if it hasn't _felt_ like that for years now, and he's doubly damned if he didn't fall right into that role. When Parsons decided to take him down, Gibbs gave a long, hard look at his NCIS career, and it's a fact borne out by his paperwork: he's gotten soft. When Tony and Tim had first called him boss, he'd been Special Agent Mysterious, Hard-Nosed, Infallible, Leroy Jethro the-Second-B-is-for-Bastard Gibbs. By the last time Ziva stood in front of his desk, he'd become Special Agent Substitute Dad, Camp Advisor, We-See-Past-Your-Tortured-Past-and-Hard-Assed-Exte rior Gibbs, and the double B couldn't possibly stand for anything more terrifying than "baby bunnies."

His work persona has melted away at the edges and been replaced by _Gibbsy_.

He'd seen it, in how hurt his team was when he didn't want them to bat for him when Parsons came snooping around. They'd expected him to want them there.

And he had, because at some point, they'd resculpted him into a suit-jacketed Andy Griffith and he'd let them do it. And now he was paying for it. One of his kids was gone and he felt like he'd been robbed. Again. It's not like he'd expected her to be forever in his life, to sit in the next desk until he retired, to ask him to walk her down the aisle—for real this time—to give him an exhausted smile when he told her _good work_ after birthing her babies—but aw, hell, maybe he had, after all. Another symptom of his weakness: He hadn't even realized how much he'd expected them to be there right up until hekicked the bucket.

He tells himself Tony'll get over it, but his gut calls him on the lie. Tony'll form more scar tissue on his heart. He'll live. But none of them will just get over it. Tony was right a few weeks ago when he said, aching all the way through and so, so exhausted, that it felt like she was dead. He knows she's been in touch with Abby and Ducky, but for the rest of them…not a peep. He watches Tony's hope drain incrementally with every day that passes with no email, no letter, no text message.

"I am not coming back, Gibbs," she had said on the phone, her voice thick, and she'd always been a woman of her word.

He supports her. Of course he supports her. He'll support her to the end of the world (and he's pretty sure that's exactly what's currently going on). But…she _chose _to be dead to them. At least Kate—

No. He won't do that; it's not fair to either of them.

But now there's that empty desk.

These are the things going through his head as he stands at his workbench the night after Halloween. He doesn't whittle often; he prefers the bigger projects, where he gets to see the pieces come together over time. But tonight he wants small-scale. He wants something small enough for a pocket. Something to be a token. So out comes the knife and a block of wood, and he begins shaving one side down as he mulls over what shape this token should take.

He thinks of how on the phone with him, she spoke of new beginnings, and how she sounded young and weary and mostly like she was trying very hard to be brave.

Carving and fiddling and turning it over in his hands with no direction seems to be enough. The minutes slip by and the lump of wood shrinks and the work dulls his thoughts. And eventually, it's very late and he's leaning over his workbench using a sharp pocketknife tip to dig patterns into the cap of a little wooden acorn.

He doesn't pause to think about the appropriateness of a seed as a symbol of a new beginning, or the potential inappropriateness of the seed being made of wood. He doesn't bother thinking of what she'll do with it. She can stick it in the ground and hope it sprouts a tree for all he cares. That's not really the point. Instead, he rubs it with fine sandpaper, then finer sandpaper, and then with the pads of his fingers until it's silky. He rubs in a beeswax paste to make the wood look alive.

He's satisfied.

It should be in Israel by the twelfth.

* * *

It takes him a little while to find the right number, but he does eventually, and he's grateful to not have to go through Vance for this one.

She picks up on the second ring, with no greeting. "Ms. Elbaz," he says.

"Ah, Agent Gibbs. Tell me what favor I'm going to be doing for your team this time."

Gibbs smiles. He'd suspected DiNozzo'd taken full advantage of this connection. "Need an address."

Orli sighs. "I do not _have_ her address. And I shall not hunt her down for you."

"Not hers. You know where Shmiel Pinkhas lives these days?"


End file.
